Downstairs
by ChemiToo
Summary: When leaving a Halloween party goes horribly wrong. Graphic, creepy, and might be disturbing. Just saying. College AU.


I have a name, and I have a story.

The name's Alfred. Alfred...uh...Jones? That doesn't quite sound right. I'm...I'm...nineteen? Yeah. Nineteen years old, and I'm a sophomore at a state university-you know the one. Not too far from here, actually...I think.

Anyway, the party.

There was a Halloween party at this one frat house. I can't remember the name of it but it's the big one. You know, the stupid loud orange-colored one, huge flag with Greek symbols all over it in the front yard-that one. A friend of mine wanted me to go, said I had to cut loose after my break up, and, well, I believed him.

"You can't go without a costume!" Francis had practically shrieked at me when I showed up at his apartment to bum a ride.

"I have a costume!" I had insisted with my signature killer pout, "I'm going as a student,"

Francis was having none of it, and he MADE ME go to this stupid Halloween costume store to get something. You know, the ones that are only open for a few weeks until Halloween? Yeah.

So I go in and Francis was going on about how we're gonna be late because of me and WILL YOU HURRY UP AND FIND SOMETHING so I picked up the first outfit I can get my hands on. The place had been pretty well picked-over, but I managed to find a costume that would accommodate my height. I'm pretty tall. At least, I think I am.

Anyway, it was a cowboy outfit. And not a cool one, either, like John Wayne or something. Oh no. No, I looked like that fucking puppet thing from Toy Story, pull string included ("SOMEBODY'S POISONED THE WATER HOLE!")

"What?" I had growled as Francis looked me over, brushing a clump of blonde bangs out of his face. He was going as Fabio, of course. Honestly I think he should have deviated from his usual obnoxious self a little more for Halloween, but whatever.

"You look nice, actually," he had teased with a smirk, "I'm sure someone'll pick you up. Save a horse, ride a cowboy and all of that,"

"Stop it," I had snapped. I mean, hell, I had just broken up with my boyfriend of two years a couple of weeks ago. Asshole had just up and left, said he was bored with me. Great. Just...yeah.

Anyway, I paid for the stupid outfit and clambered into Francis's car. We got there late, but, really, is there a way to be _late_ to a frat party? Those meatheads probably don't even have a clock in their rooms. Ivan didn't.

I...um.

Anyway.

So I got out of the car with fucking Fabio and followed him into the loudest, most crowded room ever filled from end to end with people already half in the bag. The stereo was blaring some awful song from the 80s that I was ashamed to admit that I recognized. Anyway, I ditched Francis as soon as he started flirting with some waify, thin guy in glasses in favor of getting as trashed as the rest of the room.

I had downed...I dunno, probably four shots and was moving on to some of the other stuff at the table when I saw him.

Leaning against the wall, wearing a plain pair of jeans and a plain green jacket, was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. I mean, that could have easily been the booze talking, but at that point I didn't care. I had come to this party to get laid, after all. No sense denying it.

Messy blonde hair, lithe, trim body with legs I swear went on forever...

Yes.

So I went up to this guy all stupid and drunk and this pair of green, green eyes just looked up at me like what the fuck was I doing and I just-

Sorry. Let me try that again.

"H-hey there, Sweetheart," I had said all stupid. The alcohol thrumming in my veins gave me courage, the only thing keeping me from running away and hiding in Francis's car for the rest of the night, "What're you supposed to be?"

"A murderer," he had answered after a moment's pause, cocking an eyebrow at me. Oh my GOD he had an accent. British! I...I've always been a sucker for accents.

"Oh, I see it now!" I had laughed as I noticed the mottled specks of red dotting his jeans and jacket. He had really gone all-out, even putting fake defensive scratches all over his arms where he had the sleeves rolled up, "Nice work-it looks pretty authentic!"

At that point he had smiled, and my heart skipped a beat.

I talked all stupid to him for a bit, growing less and less attractive by the instant, I'm sure, at least to a normal person.

But not to this guy.

In fact, he seemed to enjoy my company the more I rambled, indulging my slurred drunken questions with witty answers and sly smirks.

His name was Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. Turns out he was a newly hired assistant professor at the university I went to, in the art department. Just got there a few days prior, still hadn't settled in, and came into this loud as hell frat house to see what all the fuss was about and to get out of the cold as he walked home. Arthur had definitely had a point-it _was_ chilly out.

I'm not sure when it happened, exactly, but I wound up kissing him. And not, like, cutesy little pecks on the cheek. I'm talking bruisingly hard, desperately.

He wasn't disgusted enough by me to turn me away, lacing his slim arms around me and pulling me toward him, pushing me into the wall with his body and slipping his tongue into my mouth. God, it felt amazing. Even through the haze of the alcohol I remember it all clearly, his hands all over me-

It was actually really hot until his fingers slid into the pull string on the back of my outfit.

"THERE'S A SNAKE IN MY BOOT!" ripped through the bad 80s music, jerking me out of my temporary high and making my cheeks burn. I had turned away from him at that point, muttering something about how I needed to go find my friend or something like that when he grabbed my arm.

"Come home with me," he had said into my ear, softly, and it had shaken me up. _Hell yes_. I remember shuddering involuntarily, leaning into him as he led me out the door and into the cool October night.

It took probably way longer than it should have to reach Arthur's house, seeing as we had to stop so often to grab at each other and share sloppy kisses along the way. By the time we stumbled through his front door, I was ready to rip his goddamn clothes right off of him.

I had grabbed at him haphazardly, my less than dexterous fingers fumbling at the zipper of his jacket and tugging at his beautiful straw-blonde hair. I remember gasping as my back ran into something-a table? Something that I couldn't see in the dim light of his house.

"H-how much farther?" I had panted as Arthur pushed me through the winding corridors of his home. I just wanted to be tangled up with him already, goddamn it.

"Here," Arthur had grunted in response as he nipped at my neck. At that point I stopped caring about where we were going. He pushed me into something soft and climbed on top of me, peppering me with kisses and just...

It was dark in there, though.

"Light?" I had blurted as he liberated me from my ridiculous cowboy outfit.

"No," he had said curtly, and that was the end of that. I was disappointed at first. I wanted to see him, but it wasn't too bad-I could still see half of his face in the dim light, and his eyes did pick up the glow of the streetlamp filtering in through the window well enough for me to look into them as we went at it.

God DAMN, did we go at it.

Or, maybe it's more accurate to say that _he_ did.

I had been right in my assumption that Arthur Kirkland was no novice in the sack. It didn't matter that he was smaller-framed than me. What he lacked in size, he certainly made up for in stamina. I can't recall ever feeling that satisfied both during and after sex, actually. Not even Ivan had come close to what this guy was doing to me, and I loved it. It might have been the best fuck of my entire life-

I...don't want to say that.

But I wanted more.

I screamed, I moaned, I made every sound I could at the top of my lungs because I could tell he liked it. He wanted to hear me, and my intoxicated mind happily complied. I can't recall now how many times we did it that night, but...I felt it the next morning, that was for sure.

The next morning, ah...

I...

I-I woke up in an unfamiliar room, totally reeking of alcohol. I remember rolling over, crisp linen sheets crinkling around me as I got to see this room for the first time. Small; quaint, even. I was lying on a bed backed up against the wall of the room, with a window obscured by blinds to my left. A small bedside table had two pills and a glass of water upon it, which I gratefully accepted to ease the throbbing, searing ache in not just my head.

I threw on my underwear and tee and managed to hobble my way out of the room, finding myself in a narrow corridor. It was lined on all sides by doors, all of them closed. I remember vaguely wondering if Arthur's house was a mansion as I came upon a door that was slightly ajar.

I nudged it open, blearily calling for Arthur as I stumbled into the room.

Turns out it wasn't a room at all, but a staircase. It led into the basement, I figured as I began the arduous trek down the steps. It certainly hadn't been easy, with me cussing at intervals and clutching onto the wall for support.

To this day I can't figure out why I went down those fucking steps.

I could have just left. The doorway I had come in from was _right down the hall_.

But I didn't.

The basement level looked much like the first, a narrow hallway lined on all sides by doors. Only, these weren't closed. All of them were open, and there was music playing out of one of them and streaming into the corridor; some kind of opera thing? I still don't know.

"Arthur?" I had called as I looked into said room. a plaque on the door simply read "Spiral."

I...I still don't know what I saw.

The room was immaculate, every item of furniture meticulously placed around something lying on a circular bed at the room's center. A record player-one of those old school ones, with the hand crank-was belting out that horrendous opera tune in the corner of the small space. I remember shaking as I cautiously drew closer to the center of the room. Why I didn't just get the fuck out of there, I still have no goddamn idea, but...

Whatever it was- _who_ ever it was-was indiscernible, flesh removed in strips and ribbons and carved into intricate spirals and patterns all over what was left of the bloody muscle and sinew. The eyes remained, leering at me from sockets that lacked lids. I stumbled into the hallway and retched, clutching onto the wall as I fell onto all fours and crawled toward the staircase.

"Alfred, Darling, what are you doing?" a soft voice had demanded from directly behind me.

I remember screaming, clawing desperately at the steps in an attempt to escape as my strength began to leave me. I blinked away splotches of black, my vision slowly closing in on itself as Arthur appeared, grasping me firmly by the shoulders and smiling down at me with glittering green irises.

I couldn't speak; only a few haphazard syllables and squeaks came out as my vision rapidly faded.

"You took your medicine," he had said as I lost my sight completely, "Good boy,"

Next thing I knew, I was in a strange, dark room.

There are no windows here, no light of any kind save for what creeps in under the door. He doesn't like too much light to get in, says it'll ruin me. Ruin my skin. Tarnish me like silver and mar my beauty.

I can't remember how long I've been here. Days, probably. It might be weeks, but I really don't want to think about that. Arthur took my phone away, says I don't need it anymore. He'll tell me when I need to know what time it is, what day. He feeds me three times a day through the small opening beneath the door. Sometimes he brings food in when he comes to see me; I like that better. Then at least I get to eat with someone. And he always makes sure to give me a bath while he's around, keeping the bathroom door locked when I'm by myself.

He visits me frequently, most often for sex, but for other things as well. He's taken to simply holding me in silence lately, cradling me on the soft mattress of my bed and running his blood-stained fingertips through my hair. I can't see them, of course, but I can smell it: the bitter tang of iron in the air whenever he's around me.

I...I don't know why I didn't notice it before.

He probably won't be in to see me tonight-there is someone screaming from down the hallway, another art project of his. Another masterpiece in the making.

Like me, only different. He says I'm the only living piece of his, a constantly evolving canvas which he can mold and shape and twist to his liking. The only one of its kind, he tells me. Says he'll name it after me, too: Alfred Kirkland.

That _is_ my name, right? It sounds wrong, somehow. But nothing else quite seems right, either.

Maybe Francis will find me. I mean, he knew I was at that party and didn't come to class after the weekend, right? Yeah. Yeah, somebody's got to be looking for me.

But...what if they aren't?

I-I mean, don't get me wrong-Arthur has been treating me well. I'm well-fed, and he certainly gives me attention, and he hasn't killed me ye-

Oh God.

God, please get me out of here.

The screaming has stopped.

He's coming down the corridor.

Footsteps.

My breath is caught in my chest.

"Alfred?"

No.

"Darling,"

The handle is moving on my door, rattling.

I can't breathe.

I jump as the door squeaks open, rusty hinges protesting as a dark silhouette enters.

"I'm home,"


End file.
